Remains
by Spitfireness
Summary: Post-Succession Sarkney. Now with chocolate.
1. One

Title: Remains  
Author: Nes (lochmoninov@yahoo.com)  
Distribution: Ask and I'll say yes.  
Disclaimer: So not mine.  
Spoilers: Takes place after 3.2, "Succession."  
Notes: This wasn't my idea. I mean it was *my* idea, but I didn't want to write it. I've got *stuff* to do and another story to write, but this thing just wouldn't leave me alone. Completely unbeta'd.  
  
***  
  
Sydney drove home slowly, relearning the roads of LA. She took her time; there was no one waiting at home for her.  
  
Sydney hadn't lived alone in a long time.  
  
Not that she could remember, in any case. Her mouth twisted into a bitter pink bow at the thought. She didn't know where or with whom she had lived during the last two years. What she did know was loneliness.  
  
Back when she lived with Francie -the real Francie, sweet and utterly, outrageously loud, the one Sydney would always remember- the house had never been empty, even when she wished it was. She'd hidden her bruises behind an affected clumsiness and thick makeup. She'd hidden missions behind quaint anecdotes about the hazards of traveling business-class. She'd hidden her crying jags behind long, hot showers that muffled the sobs.   
  
Before, the truth had been a dream to Sydney. A long cherished wish of her heart.   
  
Now, Sydney had the truth because there wasn't any one left to lie to. Honesty, it was just another adjustment she was forced to make.   
  
_I'll have that adjusted_  
  
She remembered her father's words in front of the memorial plaque. She'd been still with shock at the clean, machine-engraved letters of her name and her father had offered comfort the best way he know how without offering violent, grievous injury to a third party.   
  
Adjusted. It had become a slimy, invidious word to her mind. Everyone wanted her to be well-adjusted and healthy. Even Dixon, who said she should feel a little crazy by all rights and, Syd, don't come too work, it's too soon. Well, even Dixon wanted her to be well-adjusted.   
  
In response, of course, Sydney had adjusted right herself right onto a Most Wanted list and, just as quickly, back off.  
  
Old hat, when she thought about it. She'd pulled the same thing on Sloane and SD-6. Sloane. It seemed that her life ran in cycles when it was there at all.  
  
So here she was again. The third apartment in as many years (as she could remember). One bedroom, and as real estate went, pretty nice. The ocean breeze came through her open window, tugging at her neat ponytail. The tang of salt sea filled her nose and she breathed in deeply.  
  
There was a new car to go with the new apartment. Apparently the old Landcruiser had burned away with the rest of her life. This shiny new toy was sleek as a seal and filled with buttons she didn't recognize. One was suspiciously marked with a coffee pot, and featured a tiny nozzle. The automobile industry, it seemed, had made great advances in the last two years. At least the doors and the stick shift still worked the way she remembered, and she got herself and her briefcase out of the car without incidence.  
  
Stairs were the same, too. Up, down, simple. Sydney told Weiss she preferred to take the stairs because it was healthier and polite; she only lived on the second floor, after all. Really, Sydney didn't want to be trapped in the mirrored elevator for any amount of time. But that information was a little too easy to psychoanalyze, even for Eric, so she kept it to herself.  
  
There was light in her apartment. The door was closed, but the glow was visible.   
  
She didn't pull out her gun; it was really too early for anyone (terrorists, kidnappers, angry counteragents) to know where she lived. Maybe it was just Eric making good on his threat to mooch. She'd left a six pack of Moosehead in the fridge just for him.  
  
Instead, she unlocked the door, making no attempt at stealth and announced her arrival, "Was the beer cold enough for you? I didn't know if you liked domestics, but I figured it was free so..."  
  
Her voice trailed off as she realized that even as newly svelte as Weiss had become, he didn't have the build two years of solitary and prison-standard food gave a man.  
  
"I couldn't tell you, Sydney. Beer isn't really my vice, though I appreciate your hospitality."  
  
Sark. He was lying comfortably on her new green couch, a book in hand. The lights were on, every one, and he just...sat there. Lounging.   
  
He was more at ease in her apartment than she was.  
  
"You know there's a CIA agent in the apartment next door, right?"  
  
"Yes," he stood, "I do."  
  
Something stopped Sydney from yelling for Weiss, or even attacking Sark with her bare hands. Instead she gestured for him sit back down, and took the wingback chair across from him.  
  
"You killed my father," he said, looking straight into her eyes.  
  
Oh, perhaps that was what had stopped her. So nice, so refreshing to have a question answered, she mused. Though she felt no shame for Lazarey's death, she did claim responsibility and she owed something to his son. She would listen and let him leave, safely, when he was done.  
  
"I'm sure the obvious remarks have occurred to you, so I won't make them."  
  
_...runs in the family, apparently...  
...that's what Derevko women do, they kill fathers..._  
  
"May I offer my condolences, instead?"  
  
Sark smiled at her, small and wan but sincere. "I didn't know my father, Sydney, though you may console me for the loss of eight hundred million dollars. I find I feel that loss quite keenly."  
  
"I'm sorry, Sark," she said.  
  
"How sorry?"  
  
Sydney paused. Sark had changed in two years. He laughed, he smiled, he went directly to the point.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
_...You and I are destined to work together, I truly believe that..._  
  
"I have, for the first time, possessed property by legal means. Irony of ironies, I have had it stolen from me. I'd like you to help me seek justice."  
  
Sydney laughed at that. She had, too.  
  
_...I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh. I'm just speechless ..._  
  
"All those missions, lives and risks you took," she shook her head. "I thought you were in it for the adrenaline, for the game, but all this time you've just been greedy."  
  
Sark leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. "I spoke truly when I said justice. I don't need the money, I have a quite a nice nest egg, actually, so I can pay you for your aid.'  
  
"Come with me, Sydney. Your justice and mine are the same in this; we'll take down the Covenant together."  
  
_...you were my favorite. You never broke..._  
  
The Covenant. They had the answers. Again, she wished she hadn't killed that man so soon. She should have made him beg for death; she would have begged for answers.  
  
_...I don't need you to wish me luck, you son of a bitch..._  
  
She needed luck now. She needed whatever help she could get and he was offering. Offering in a way neither the CIA, and definitely the NSA, hadn't. They would use her and use her to their own ends, never caring if she found her answers as long as they got what they want. Their questions were not her questions.  
  
_...which begs the question, if it wasn't your body they removed from the ashes, whose was it..._  
  
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, Sark was still there. Looking right back.  
  
The more she thought about it, the more she was comfortable with the idea. Sark wouldn't expect Sydney to adjust to anything. She'd never had to worry about impressing him, or hurting him, or protecting him so he'd never been exposed to the aliases or the lies, just...herself.  
  
He had only ever seen Sydney.   
  
Vaughn couldn't even meet her eyes anymore. Not with all the guilt and sadness and utter longing weighing his eyelids down.   
  
"They have a base at Aveiro. I'm leaving at midnight. There's a seat, an entire cabin, if you like, for you on my jet."  
  
_...offer you passage back to civilization but my submersible only seats four..._  
  
Could she leave? Leave Los Angeles, go to Portugal...For answers, she would go to the moon.  
  
And what was left for her here?   
  
Francie was dead, Will was in the Protection program.  
  
Vaughn had a wife, Dixon had the agency, Marshall had Carrie and the baby. She wished she could be here for when the baby was born...  
  
She'd already made her choice.  
  
Her father would understand as long as she left a note, stayed in contact. It would to be too cruel to leave without a trace. He would continue to work the within the agency and with her mother.   
  
She'd leave the six pack on Weiss' doormat with a letter. He'd sent her to Sloane, he'd understand why she'd gone with Sark...Weiss had been such a good friend, driving her home after the confrontation with Vaughn.   
  
_...know how I am? I am horrible! Vaughn, I am ripped apart..._  
  
"I could use someone who knows the language."  
  
Sydney realized she'd been quiet, wrapped up in her own plans. She looked at him, recognizing plea in his voice.  
  
"Sark," she teased gently, "you can speak Urdu, Korean, and Cherokee. How do you not know Portuguese?"  
  
A shadow passed over his face, amazing in the bright room, "I do, actually. Only I presume it may be a tad rusty from disuse. I haven't had occasion to practice recently."  
  
And Sydney felt the same shadow, cool and grey, touch her as she realized that she was not the only one who had lost two years.   
  
She was not the only one who lonely.  
  
"Come with me, Sydney."  
  
She still hadn't answered him, "I killed your father, Sark."  
  
"You made me heir to eight hundred million worth of gold bullion. I consider the offense forgiven. If you're feeling shivers of remorse, you may attempt sleep in an uncomfortable commercial airline seat instead of dreaming away in a luxuriously-appointed cabin beneath a down comforter aboard my private plane."  
  
"Sark..."  
  
"Or if you are feeling very penitent, you can try to sleep in beneath the down comforter in my bed."  
  
She looked up at him sharply, was pleased to see he was only teasing. And was more pleased to rediscover her own capacity to care about someone's feelings besides her own.  
  
"I plead amnesia," Sydney said as she stood up. Ever the gentleman, he stood as well.  
  
She plucked the paperback he'd been reading from the couch and placed it back in his hand, "John Donne, huh? You won't want to forget this then. You'll need it on the plane, because I'll be sleeping in my own cabin. It will have a lock, won't it?"  
  
"Oh, Sydney, and I thought we'd shared a moment of sympathy only a moment ago. Have mercy on a man who's been in confinement for two years. Even common criminals get conjugal visits."  
  
"Lucky for me," she said. "You're not a common anything."  
  
He smiled.  
  
And she smiled in response, certain she hadn't this relaxed in years.  
  
Even the ones she could remember.  
  
***  
  
Gah! It's over, it's out! It's exorcised. And not as dark as I wanted it to be. Ah, well. Comments, criticisms? A better title, I never like my titles.  
  
BTW I attribute the turn to fluffy potential happiness to Sark's line, "You killed my father." Someone's really gotta write a "My name is Sarkino Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die" fic. 


	2. Two

Author's note: I freaking *hate* you people.  I was all lookit! my sub par episode tag, it's gone, I'm exorcised the damned thing.  But, NO, you had to be all nice (gorgeously flattering and don't think I don't know you did this on purpose!) and get my head spinning and so now, here you go.  I would like to say though that this fic will be flying by the seat of its own pants.  I really would prefer to finish "Scylla and Charybdis" before beginning another story, but this thing just won't leave me alone...so I've compromised.  There is very little deliberate plotting here -it's all vaguely in my head and subject to inspiration from the new season.  Also, there will be no beta.  (Yup, I'm driving you away with bad grammar and misspelling.)This is a completely new experience for me, but it appears that I'm chained to this demon story.  And that's my rationalization for any sudden changes in style or other sloppiness.  Yeah, that'll teach you guys...

Mood Music: "Behind Blue Eyes"

***

Sark hadn't lied.

His private plane _was]_ luxuriously appointed.  It rested plainly in the airfield, but the inside was a spectacular achievement in comfort and style.  Rather than the industrial or ultra modern decor she expected, Sydney was unexpectedly pleased to appreciate the simple lines in rich colors and dark, heavy woods.  

Her own cabin had been prepared in shades of meadow green relieved by the merest hints of daffodil yellow.  While he acted the gracious tour guide for her, she idly wondered if Sark had chosen the space for a particular reason.  

He soon answered the question for her, "This cabin's computer console is connected directly to my network.  I've allowed you access to all but my private files.  You'll need to record a voice code and retinal scan.'

"I'm in the cabin across the hall.  The other two cabins empty, neither is locked.  I'm currently using the one bordering my own as an office.  The crew space is located elsewhere.  If you need anything, press this toggle and someone will see to your needs.'

"Speaking of needs," he gestured to her small duffel bag.  "If you make wish to make purchases, I've opened several accounts with reliable online merchants.  Anything you require will be delivered to the house by the time we arrive in Portugal.  The credit is unlimited and the account numbers are listed under-"

"No," Sydney cut him off even as she began unpacking her few belongings into the mahogany dresser bolted onto the floor.  "I'm good."

"Sydney," he shook his head, "Be practical.  You haven't worked in two years, and it's not as if you were making anything more than civil servant wages before.  We don't know how long this operation will last and I believe that razing the Covenant down to its smallest part may take a considerable amount of time.  I need you dedicated to this job, not preoccupied with economics."

She slammed a drawer shut and dropped her duffel bag before looking at him, "I was pulling double pay from the CIA and SD-6 for more than a year.  Give me some credit for being ready to run the minute my cover was blown.  I have a nest egg, too, Sark."

"You admit that the funds are for contingencies.  I am not so arrogant that I forget the perils of our work.  Keep your money, Sydney, because I assure you, I am doing the same.  The money I allocate for your needs and wants has been considered in our budget; it's a legitimate business expense."  He handed her a wallet, "Don't be childish, Sydney, be professional.  Use the resources available." 

"Childish?  What a lovely idea, Sark.  When I need money, I'll just ask my parents for the week's allowance."

He looked at her sharply, "Irina?  She's alive?"

Sydney pursed lips, unsure if Sark held a grudge for Irina was certainly responsible for captivity.  And if not directly responsible, well, Irina had not attempted to extract her former operative either.

"I haven't seen her.  But my father...They've been in contact.  They searched for me together."

He nodded his head, "Don't worry at it, Sydney.  I don't take Irina's decisions personally.  If anything, I understand her motivation."

She moved to sit on the bed and Sark put his hands on her shoulders to steady her as the plane rocked with gentle turbulence.

"You appear," he said after removing his hands and stepping away, "to be surrounded by people who want to shield you."

"Well-adjusted," Sydney muttered half-heartedly.

Sark continued, "I don't claim to understand why the Save Sydney urge is so strong considering your natural resilience.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'll see to supper.  Are there any dishes you'd prefer?"

"No, I hardly taste food anymore."

He frowned slightly, "In that case I'll indulge in liver and boiled cabbage.  I acquired quite the taste for it during my stay at Chez Le Cell Block."

Sydney blanched and he was glad she had not tried to hide the expression.

"I was being facetious," he grinned.  He put his hand in his pocket, then placed a card on the console radio beside the door.  He gestured for her not to get up from the bed, but moved to the open door.  "Now that's your key.  Sole access is yours.  Feel free to be yourself, walk around in the smallest of your underclothes, or enjoy the freedom of complete nudity..."

Sydney gave him a withering glance.

"Indeed," he coughed.  "That was my sense of humor making a second appearance.  Did you notice?  Ah, well, we'll discuss the terms of our partnership following supper.  Think about what you want."

And in a neat step, Sark was gone leaving only vestiges of his cologne behind.  

Sydney took a delicate sniff.

Amber, sandalwood, and lemon.  

She took a deeper breath.

TBC

Again, the disclaimer: I have no idea where this is going so I might just write myself into a corner.  I am super flattered that you guys liked the story so much, though, so I hope you don't regret the positive feedback before this is over.  


	3. Three

AN: I'm coming to terms.  We're past the anger and denial stages.  In fact, I've come to look at this as a warm-up for S&C since Ana's fighting me.  She thinks its the Ana Show or something.  Geez.  Fictional characters, what's up with that?

Notes before the story, sorry!  

**screen**** names are tacky**: I could have sworn you reviewed, too.  Edited to fix the numbering BTW, thanks for paying attention. 

**Fanatic482**: I love your feedback, so detailed, so nice!  Thank you!  I've read your stories!

**carmensandieo1**: I read "Circle!"  You're reading my story, that's unreal!  It's so cool.  Check out my middle school vocabulary...yeah, that'll impress you)

**Hips**: Thank you!  Characterization, sigh, that's hard.  

**Jade C**: Vaughn?  Well, for Vaughn to be jealous, he'd have to be in the fic and, uh, thinking this might be a Vaughn-free fic.

**Everyone else**: Really thank you.  I can't believe the amount of love I got.  I'll try to continue as long as I can.

***

Over years of international travel, flying had become a necessary evil. Sydney came to associate airplanes with crying children, inquisitive grandmotherly types, and persistently flirtatious salesmen. All were obstacles to the sleep she desperately craved before and after missions thus she hated all with indiscriminate fervor. There had been instances when only Dixon's restraining hand had prevented Sydney from gassing whole passenger manifests with Marshal's optimum strength sleeping solution. The trip from Kuala Lumpur to Egypt came quickly to mind.  
  
Now, this flight was different. Pink and orange-tinged light streamed through her windows and was gradually replaced with a serene starscape. She was in the sky, and though it had happened before, she had somehow ignored the wonder. Sydney was still looking out the cabin's windows, her arms braced against the sill when Sark rapped politely on the door.  
  
"It's Sark," he called out unnecessarily. "Supper is ready."  
  
She looked down at her jeans and button down. Well, besides her black business suits her wardrobe didn't get any better so it would have to do. Sark was probably dressed to the nines, overcompensating for years of government issue.  
  
He escorted her towards the front of the plane where a table was set for two. White china dishes presented lightly broiled salmon and with fennel and mushrooms. He pulled her seat out for her, and she decided not to make a big honking deal of his gentlemanly behavior.  
  
She did however raise an eyebrow when he sat down and sipped at his iced lemonade.  
  
"Don't pigeonhole me, Sydney," he said as he set the glass down. "Moreover, I need to reconstruct my palate. It is not as if I have become a teetotaler."  
  
"Right. Let's leave the stiff drinks for after dinner."  
  
"Sydney," he said delightedly, "A nightcap?"  
  
She did not glower, but instead chose to begin on the salad. "How did you get away from the Covenant?"  
  
Sydney expected a line about not mixing business and pleasure so she was even more unbalanced when Sark replied.  
  
"How do you know I did? What makes you think this isn't a trap; I won't give you to the Covenant in exchange for admission into their organization?"  
  
"Not your style," she replied easily. "You haven't exactly toyed with me; I get the feeling you like to play with your food. Excuse the pun. And maybe it's hubris, but I like to think you would kill me yourself."  
  
Sark nodded in agreement. "There was an opening at the bank, after I'd opened the vault. They were preoccupied with transporting the bullion and I was able to change places with one of the bank's tellers."  
  
She looked at Sark with slight disappointment, "Did you kill him?"  
  
"No," he said without a trace of wounded feeling, "I left him unconscious, propped up against a toilet."  
  
"Naked?"  
  
"Yes, Sydney, naked. And I'm certain he got pneumonia." Sark slapped himself on the hand, "Bad Sark, bad. And how is it that all our conversations turn to nudity?"  
  
Sydney resisted the urge to stick her tongue out. "Do you think they're looking for you?"  
  
"Do you think they're looking for _you_," he returned. "While I do not believe they will connect our disappearances, I think the Covenant will look for us separately. I'm a loose end, though I have not the faintest idea what you represent for them."  
  
"How will this affect our strategy?"  
  
"Not in any significant manner, I had already decided stealth would be our best tactic. Let us not announce our intent."  
  
"What else have _you_ decided?"  
  
Though his meal was hardly touched, Sark stood. "I can see we're going to have to have a conversation about certain issues before a man is able to enjoy a simple repast, in peace, with the company of a beautiful woman."  
  
Sydney had the grace to look abashed. She admitted, "It would make me more at ease."  
  
"Would you like your stiff drink, now?"  
  
"Hit me," she requested, "A finger or three of bourbon should do wonders for my temperament."  
  
"We can only hope," he replied as he went to the sidebar to pour her drink and led her to a small sitting area off the side of the dining room.  
  
He allowed her a moment to adjust to her chaise lounge, before reclining in his own.  
  
"This is very Roman of you, Sark," Sydney noted. "I bet not many airplanes can boast a triclinium."  
  
"You'd be surprised," He arranged himself comfortably on his side and looked at her. "Let me be clear. I am interested in collaboration. If I wanted a lackey, I would hire another one. I already have five, in fact, since this plane doesn't fly itself. In any case, I esteem your abilities above all comers and have long been curious about what a true effort of teamwork between us could produce.'  
  
"I would like our decisions to reflect our partnership. I will defer you in matters in which you are more knowledgeable, and also swear always to listen and consider your opinions."  
  
"The money," she interrupted.  
  
"Is not indicative of any kind of employment. You will not be my employee, you will my equal. As it should be."  
  
She mulled his statement over, swirling the liquor in her glass. "I'd like to discuss a few stipulations."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I need to maintain contact with my father. He's a very good source of information and he's still inside the CIA."  
  
"Let's not forget filial piety. I understand, well, maybe not that, but I've heard of the concept." Sark nodded, "I accept your first condition. Now, for one of my own. Sydney, take the money."  
  
"If it's so important to you, fine. Term three: I have no obligations to you after we've taken down the Covenant. I'm not looking for a new career."  
  
Sark frowned, but agreed. "Term four: No one gets left behind. For the duration of our collaboration, which will terminate _only_ with the ruin of the Covenant, you can trust that I will never betray you, never double-cross you, and never desert you."  
  
"Me, too. I mean, I promise the same thing to you." She met his eyes and nodded solemnly.   
  
Feeling the need to alleviate the moment's intensity, she said, "Term five: No spandex, no lycra, no acetate, no PVC, or whatever space age flesh-clinging material has been developed now."  
  
Sark paused, "Let's talk about this."  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
"The Covenant is searching for us. We'll need disguises."  
  
"Disguises, yes. Wigs, yes. Clown makeup, if we are about to die. But I fail to see any situation requiring me to dress as a hooker, a stripper, or a club kid."  
  
"You have no vision."  
  
"No way, Sark. Agree or I walk."  
  
He sighed, "Are we saying no to leather, as well?"  
  
"I will concede the option for leather. But not colored leather, strictly classic black."  
  
"Be still my heart-"  
  
"If I have to wear the leather, you have to wear the leather."  
  
"Done." He continued before she changed her mind, "Term six: We are not to give away information. I mean it; we're not dropping helpful hints and bread crumbs to the CIA or NSA."  
  
"I can live with that," Sydney replied. "Term Seven: Nor will we obstruct the justice of legitimate crime fighting organization including but not limited to the Joint Task Force, Interpol-."  
  
"What about the Justice Friends, Sydney? Can we obstruct the Justice Friends?"  
  
"Save the mockery, I'm serious."  
  
"I suppose I am forced to comply with your wishes," Sark made a haughty face. "Term eight: we remain in contact at all times. There will be no running off to mini-golf with the parents or go on pleasure jaunts with the boyfriend."  
  
"The husband."   
  
"Come again?"  
  
Sydney's face went blank. "He's married."  
  
Sark sat up and stared at her. "He did what?"  
  
She did not sit up, but stared at the ceiling. "The boyfriend, Michael Vaughn. He's a husband, now. Someone else's."  
  
Sark muttered something beneath his breath but she couldn't quite make it out. There was the sound of movement, and soon she found a fresh drink in her hand.  
  
"Thanks," she said, taking an inelegant gulp. "I still haven't adjusted to it."  
  
"You're welcome," he said, still sitting beside her. When Sydney's complexion returned to a healthy shade, he continued, "So I venture you will consent to term eight, then?"  
  
"You realize you're reducing your own opportunities for _pleasure_, don't you?" Sydney made a conscious effort to slow her heart down.  
  
"I've grown accustomed to the hardship," he said. Checking to see if Sydney looked at all sorry for him, he went on, "Besides, how could I even look at another woman when I have you at my side."  
  
"Looking is all you're going to get."  
  
"It's all I need."  
  
"Term nine, you wear a blindfold when in my presence."  
  
"You're a regular comedienne, Sydney."   
  
"What happened to that sense of humor, Sark?"  
  
"You killed it," he accused. "No, you haven't, but it is rather discriminating and doesn't find you funny. At all."  
  
Sydney laughed, "I take back term nine."  
  
"Term ten, Sydney will make no further attempts at humor." He smiled.  
  
"Term eleven, Sark will refrain from being the bossiest boy assassin in the free world," Sydney said in a sing-song voice.  
  
Sark shook his head in droll amusement, "I am the bossiest boy assassin in the whole world, thank you."  
  
"I stand corrected," Sydney fell off her chaise, snickering.  
  
"Do I really appear so boyish?" He put a searching hand to his sculpted cheek. "I thought I was finally rid of the baby fat."  
  
Sydney continued to laugh as he looked for a mirror. "I bet you get still get carded."  
  
Sark's failure to correct her sent Sydney into deeper, nearly hysterical gales and soon he joined her on the floor. He placed the glass of whiskey out of harm's way. He did not remark that the tremors of her body could be attributed to grief as much as joy.  
  
Instead, he only leaned back and was quiet, content to take pleasure from the nearness of another.  
  
TBC


	4. Four

Short part, less banter.  Authors' notes come first because I always get gloomy when they are at the end.  I start reading fics, look at the scroll bar and think, wow, the fic is long!  But then I realize the bottom 75%  is like the authors' notes to people who aren't me.  Sadness.

**Webmistress**** Eh**: Interesting name you have there!  Wouldn't you just love to see someone try to card Sark?  And I agree about being cold exhausting.

**Nimbolina**: Thank you!  I did go to the Unoffical DA Board, I've been there before chasing down i_got_jack's_back fic and I applied for a membership but I haven't got one yet so I can't post.  If you like, you can put it up for me.  It's a lot of cutting and pasting though so don't worry about saying no!

**Lux1:** I know what you mean about find fic here at ff.net, it's like looking for a grail.  Fanforum?  That's wild, I used to live over there.  I've never been to the Alias boards --I lived at Fanfiction and the Roswell boards-- but maybe I can stop by?  I'm way flattered that someone rec'd me!  _Hubris?_ Hey, watch it, or I'll pull hamartia out of someone.  And I definitely *will* tell you if I hear about a Sarkino fic. 

**sallene** I'd love to be in Sark's naughty thoughts.  Yum...

**Fanatic482**I love your reviews!  They're so detailed and I love to see what people thought was good as opposed to what I liked.  Sometimes it coincides and sometimes it doesn't.  

**serenity**** sea** I left an fb at your story, "Gone."  Loved it!  And thank you for double-reviewing, it makes me wanna write.

**939597**: Dark side?  What dark side?

**screen**** names are tacky:** I could you swear you reviewed it before, too.  Thanks for catching that numbering for me, I fixed it.

**Ossian**: I'm pretty impressed with myself, too.  No, no!  Kidding!  The Ego has left the building.  Um, the story hit me (literally) about two minutes after the episode aired and it wouldn't let go until I wrote it.

**Cristabel****, dizzy izzy, annie, Sarkoholic, leonsalanna, Vaughn+Sydney, carmensandiego1, cjgurl, Fashiondiva, Mnemosyne, macaroon, mdemanatee**: Thanks for the reviews!  I'll keep going as long as I can.  Oh, and Sark in leather -I definitely put that in clause in with a visual picture in mind.  And I plan (insomuch as I'm planning anything...) to have Leather!Sark in the fic at some point.

**_The demon story continues_**

"Where are my socks?"

"Well, hello, Sydney.  Why, yes, I _did_ manage to pick up your favorite local cheese and a nice madeira.  I know, I know, I am wonderful.  And pastry?  I have fresh pasteles from Carvalho, the coconut ones you order every time we visit.  How ever did I remember?"  Sark put his brown-paper wrapped packages down onto the carved bench in the vestibule.  "Please, Sydney, don't be so effusive in your welcome and appreciation.  Honey, don't gush."  
  


"Thank you for doing the shopping," Sydney grit her teeth.  "Now, where the hell are my socks?"

"They had holes, I put them in the rag bin," He offered her a cloth bag.  "Here, I purchased replacements.  One hundred per cent cotton."

"You!"  Sydney threw her hands up in frustration.  "I wanted to work out!  I had my whole day planned."

"You were welcome to borrow a pair of my socks," Sark said magnanimously.  "I wouldn't have minded and they would have been a close fit."

He sat on the wooden bench to remove his shoes while she stalked the length of the room.

"What are you talking about?  Your feet are huge.  They practically honk you're so deformed.  Are you calling my feet big?"  Sydney took a short breath.  "And why are you so sure they would have fit?  Have you been borrowing my socks?"

"Yes.  The pink stripe down the toe?  It makes me feel all confident and manly.  Adds a whole new level to my game."

Sydney laughed and sat down beside him, "I guess I _could _be overreacting."  She bit her lip, "But I doubt it."

"No comment," Sark said but handed her a packet.  "Have a biscuit."

"Promise to spar later?"  She asked, holding the warm pastry gingerly.

"You, in the verboten lycra?  I would not dream of missing such an opportunity," Sark answered, leaning forward to steal a bite before she could pull her hand away.

"Hey," she complained.  "That's mine.  Get your own."

"I would have, but I didn't have time.  I had hoped to be home before you awoke."

"Why," Sydney asked gracelessly while taking a bite.

"Hold a second, you've crumbs," Sark passed his fingers along her jaw to sweep away the pastry flakes.  "Funny, but I can't quite remember why.  Thoughts of thanking you for last night's massage with your favorite foods?  And perhaps something to do with an aubade?  Foolish plan, I realize now, but I was hoping to make the massages a nightly custom.  Also, perhaps to extend to body parts besides my shoulders..."

"Are you trying to _condition_ me?"

"No, Sydney, I'm likening you to a canine.  You usually pick these things up faster."

Sydney blushed.  "I'm just nervous, you know?  About tomorrow."

"The operation will go _fine_.  We've done all we can remotely, we need to place our surveillance equipment in the Covenant's building.  That's all.  A simple op."  

"Do you realize my last few missions have gone _hideously_?  The one in Paris, the Covenant set-up?  Everyone but Weiss was massacred.  And I'm sure you remember New Mexico.  It wasn't enough to be sabotaged by terrorists, we had to be blocked by our own government. "

"_Your_ government," he corrected.  "No government of mine would have bollixed so thoroughly.  And it didn't go so badly for me, considering." Sark continued in a restful, soothing tone.  "Besides, tomorrow, you'll be with me and you know how good I am."

Sydney snorted rudely.

"_That_ is what I want to hear.  In all seriousness, you have to be aware of how well we collaborate.  I've worked with many people but have never before achieved the rapport you and I have.  We are quite capable separately, together..."

"You're so full of yourself, Sark."

"One of us has to be," he answered and attempted to steal another bite of Sydney's pastry but she moved it out of his reach.

Standing, she brushed the crumbs from her pants and grabbed her new socks.  "I left an omelette in the kitchen, if you're interested.  I'm off."

"You're leaving me to put away the groceries?"  Sark pouted, "But I did the shopping.  By all rights, _you_ should put away the groceries."

"Should've put it in the prenup."  She punched him on the cheek playfully, "Don't be grumpy, Sark.  Join me in a few hours?"

He didn't grab her hand to hold it, only looked into her eyes and held her gaze.  He broke their contact, grinning cheekily, "You just be ready for me."

***

When Sark arrived in their basement gymnasium, he was disappointed to find Sydney clad in sweatpants instead of spandex.  She had the gym set up for weapons training so he waited until she was reloading to tap her on the shoulder.

She removed her ear plugs and pushed the button to send the target towards them.  She nudged Sark to look.

"Nice spread," he commented.  "I like the new 9mm.  I think I'll carry one tomorrow."

He caught her look and murmured, "Just in case."

She hefted her gun carefully.  "I'm not sure if I like how much lighter a Glock 22 is now.  I like my guns sturdy and I don't think I have the hang of the recoil yet."

"Overcompensating?"

"Yeah."

"Perhaps if you stand like this," Sark moved his legs apart.

"Hmm," Sydney pursed her lips.  "I've never been a fan of guns."

"I'd rather you carry one just the same."  He moved to stand behind her, and brought his hand up to hers.  "Let me show you."

Sydney tacitly accepted his assistance by letting him guide the movements of her body.  Together they brought up the gun.  His breath sent warm vibrations along her ear and down the column of her neck.

"Just so," he whispered as they squeezed the trigger.

The shot went straight through the heart. 

Sark let their arms down, and finally released her hand.  He stepped away, "Did you get that?"

There was a breath before Sydney answered, "I think I did."

She put the gun down and turned to face him, "I need to go call my father.  He wants a meeting.  Soon."

"I'll take care of your weapon."  Sark pursed his lips thoughtfully, "Only your father?"

"Yes," Sydney said.  "And he wants you there."

"I'd insist upon it in any case."  He cocked his head to the side, "Can you put him off until Switzerland?  I want us moved out of here as soon after the op as possible."

Sydney nodded, "I think I'm going to turn in.  I'll take supper in my room and get some decent sleep.  Four o'clock tomorrow?"

"Bright and early," Sark confirmed.  "You bring the ski masks, I'll bring the unmarked car."

He watched her walk up the short flight of stairs, strain written into her every movement.  When her hand touched the doorknob, he called out, "Sydney, be sure to send the Spy Daddy my love!"

He heard her light giggle float down before leaving him alone with the guns.

TBC


	5. Five part A

Authors' notes: Okay, so, um. I am overwhelmed by the love. Thank you! I know it's been a long time and I've confessed to abandonment, but I think this is going…oddly. I've had writer's block and total lack of confidence, but I started rewatching my Season Three tapes and a kernel of an idea came to me. I jumped on that and forgot the previous idea, which was to totally screw the Portugal mission and have Sark order Sydney to leave, thus breaking one of the terms…la la la. It sucked. So, right…please be tolerant. I know this has like *zero* banter, but I hope you stay with me in case I can write this.   
  
Unbeta'd like nobody's business.   
  
Again, this fic flies by the seat of its own pants. You have been warned.  
  
--Part 5a--  
  
Sark awoke just as his train pulled into the Lausanne station. It had been a trip of hellish discomfort; his right arm had been constantly jostled in its sling, claims of miraculously smooth travel by Swiss Rail bedamned. He intended to crush the company right after he was finished with the Covenant; false advertising was a crime that could not go unpunished.  
  
Worse luck, Sydney wasn't there to comfort him. Her form of comfort of course meaning she would accuse him of being a brat but still clandestinely fluff his pillow while he pretended to sleep.  
  
Thanks to Jack Bristow, Sark had to fluff his own damned pillow. Or let Agnese, the terrifying Italian widow next to him, do it. She had offered to fluff other things as well. A man of less gentlmanly courtesy would have laughed in heavily made-up Agnese's face but Sark had contented himself by pleading a vow of chastity. He was grateful he had decided against the leather. In jeans and a turtleneck, he could pass for a student and he led her to think he was feverishly eager to enter the seminary.  
  
Considering her amusement at his youthful looks, he bet Sydney would have gotten a kick out of his deception. Although, Sark speculated, if Sydney had been sitting next to him he doubted Agnese would have attempted to pick him up.  
  
Ah, well, there were good reasons for traveling separately. Despite his confident predictions of success, the operation had not gone exactly as hoped. They had entered the Covenant building easily and split up to plant their surveillance equipment but on his way back to the rendezvous point, Sark had gotten caught.  
  
A lone guard had surprised him, a huge mountain of a man who had broken Sark's arm before even making the requisite villainous gloat. Sark had reversed the hold -he still winced in pain at the memory- and killed the guard. A necessary act, it would not do for the Covenant to know they were their security had been breached. But the shot had rung out clear and loud and Sark had been forced to enact Plan B. Over the com, he told Sydney not to return to their villa but head straight for the air strip where his private plane waited. Once he made it there, however, he had found a note. Her father had sent a warning, advising them to travel separately and in disguise because the NSC was investigating Sydney's disappearance. What was more, Jack had also sent an itinerary. Naturally his beloved daughter traveled first class on a jet while Sark was left to the train, never mind that Sark had a broken body part. It appeared that Jack Bristow, travel agent, was as cold a bastard as Jack Bristow, secret agent. He couldn't fault the man, however, as the NSC could be a serious threat to his plans.  
  
His thoughts broke were interrupted by a rude touch, Agnese stood before him, blocking the aisle. She gave him two smacking kisses, one on each cheek, before reaching her grabby hand behind him and slipping a piece of paper in his back pocket. Sark cringed with embarrassment. If he didn't have a broken arm, she never would have gotten close to him.   
  
"That's my phone number," the widow winked as Sark moved past her. "Call me if you are ever in Locarno. I could introduce you to a different kind of calling."  
  
He supposed it would break his cover if he gave her the finger as the train pulled away. It would make him feel happier though. He pushed his hand through his hair and sighed in resignation before picking up his pack with his good arm.  
  
Damn her father anyway.  
  
***  
  
Due to the marvel of flight, Sydney arrived in Switzerland before her lusty widow-besieged partner. She had taken her father's advice seriously, tinting her hair red and taking on the persona of an eccentric folk artist.   
  
She hadn't seen him since she had left LA. They had spoken on the phone but her father had never given any indication of the anger she knew he had to feel. She loved her father but was fully aware of his overprotective tendencies. She thanked her lucky stars he had not been around when she had begun to date in earnest.  
  
Sydney was supposed to meet her father in a café; it was small but popular with the tourists. He had reserved a balcony table where few were brave enough to venture as winter approached.  
  
He stood as she approached and she threw herself into his arms. He held her tight before they sat down at the table.  
  
"I'm relieved to find you're alright, Sydney. This ill-conceived plan of yours to ally with Sark-"  
  
"Dad, you're the last person I thought I'd ever have to lecture on pragmatism. There are things I need to know-"  
  
"But with Sark?" Jack's voice was remarkably even but Sydney could he was strained.  
  
"There's nothing I can do with the CIA that you can't accomplish. Working with Sark only increases my chances. Between his connections, yours, mine, and Mom's," Sydney broke off. "And don't think I won't ask you about her, either. I don't see how a partnership with Sark is any worse."  
  
"Irina is a completely different matter." He looked at her closely. "Unless he isn't. Sydney, are you sleeping with Sark?"  
  
"Are you sleeping with Mom?" Sydney glared at him pointedly. "Please, Dad. I need you to have faith in me."  
  
  
  
"You can't tell me you trust the man. Do you remember who he is? What he's done?"  
  
Sydney went very still and tried to find the words to explain. After a few moments of silence, she began. "Did you know that I went to Francie's restaurant, Dad? Just once, the first week…I was back. It wasn't something I planned on and I don't know what I expected. A parking lot? A Krispy Kreme? I told myself I was prepared for anything, but I wasn't. Have you been there lately? They've expanded the dining room and there were still people waiting outside for lunch. One of the waiters told me it was named one of the top ten in the city. It's thriving! They're still using the menu Francie chose, and the same dishes Will washed. Francie's dead and her restaurant is known nationwide for her bouillabaisse. Do you know how wrong that is?'  
  
"It's wrong. So, so wrong. My best friend is dead and I know that Sark is at least partially responsible. I can't lie to myself about that. Once I would have gladly cut his throat but the world has changed, Dad. I'm confused and drifting; I felt hollow in LA. I need some purchase on reality besides vengeance and if it's understanding from Sark…I've chosen to take it."  
  
Her father had closed his eyes briefly. She took his hand on top of the table and waited until he looked at her again.  
  
"I trust you, Sydney. But I don't trust Sark." Her father's voice took on steel and his eyes refocused over her shoulder. "And I'm prepared to kill him if you get the smallest paper cut."  
  
"Remind me to start sending your love notes on perfumed rubber sheets." Sark sat down at the table, next to Sydney.  
  
"Shut up," Sydney said familiarly.  
  
Jack stood up abruptly, "Sydney, if you'll excuse us. I want to have a word with your…confederate."  
  
TBC  
  
Here's hoping none of you regret asking me to continue… 


	6. Five part B

**-Part 5b--**  
  
The men left the table, Jack leading Sark to the empty far corner of the balcony.  
  
Sark looked over the railing for two reasons: to appreciate the view of Mont Blanc and so that Sydney could not read their lips. Jack Bristow stood beside him, silent and doing that unnerving, unblinking, staring-thing he was so well known for.  
  
"Are you certain," Sark began conversationally, "you wouldn't rather take this outside? If you push me off the mountain now, your daughter will see."  
  
"Listen carefully, Sark, you've proven yourself to be a cunning man so I'm going to respect that intelligence by not repeating my threat."  
  
"Thanks so much, Jack," Sark smirked. "But we do need to broach the matter of trust. Be reasonable. You can't expect to verify every piece of information I give you. I don't plan to run myself ragged double-checking your work. If this alliance is to succeed, we must trust one another. If you can't trust me as a man, at least trust my intentions."  
  
"It's your intentions that concern me."  
  
"Don't couch your suspicion in fatherly distress at my personal interest in Sydney. I'm not asking to take her to prom. This is neither the time nor the place for you to disclose the rules and requisites for dating your daughter. She is an experienced field operative, perfectly capable of taking care of herself and any unwanted overtures. In any case, I suspect it's not that score that worries you."  
  
"You're right. I'm sure Sydney wouldn't dirty her hands with you. I'm more concerned with betrayal; you have admitted that your loyalties are flexible. How do I know you won't turn her into the Covenant the moment it would benefit you?"  
  
"You don't."  
  
"That's not acceptable, Sark. Acting cavalier isn't helping my assessment."  
  
"I know Julia Thorne killed my father, Andrean Lazarey. I knew before I approached Sydney. We've already spoken of it." Sark turned to face the other man. "She still decided to trust me."  
  
Jack's face revealed nothing. "Sydney makes foolish choices. She may be helping you in a misguided attempt to atone."  
  
"Or perhaps she is as desperate to take down the Covenant as I am, Jack. Maybe you should just ask her."  
  
"My daughter may trust you but it signifies nothing between us. I don't recall giving you permission to call me Jack."  
  
"Well, I don't recall giving you permission to call me Sark," he responded impatiently.  
  
Jack blinked before resuming his glare. Sark glared back, a little miffed at the lameness of his own reply. Well, good verbal riposting was difficult even in the best of circumstances. Good thing he had a broken arm to blame everything on.  
  
They stared at each other. Stalemate.  
  
At that moment, an unlucky waitress approached the Hostility Corner. "Entschuldigen Sie bitte!"  
  
Sydney moved to intercept her, "Oh, sorry, they don't speak Swiss!"  
  
The mood was broken. Sark snorted as Sydney dragged the woman away. He moved to follow but Jack grabbed his broken arm and twisted it cruelly. "This conversation isn't finished yet."  
  
Sark didn't wince. "I didn't think it was. Now excuse me, Jack, I have to debrief my partner. If you have nothing more useful to contribute than B-Movie threats, I cannot be bothered with you."  
  
***  
  
"Nice disguise," Sydney said as opened her hotel room door.  
  
"I'm an aspiring priest keen on devoting my life to the abbey and all that. You're supposed to be perceptive. Can't you tell?"  
  
"God save the Church," she replied.  
  
"I didn't say what church, Sydney. How would you like to be the first disciple in the Church of Sark?" He wagged his eyebrows up and down, "I'm quite good at answering prayers. Plus there's the priestess uniform to consider. The sheer fabrics are very comfortable in tropical zones. And I'd make you my high priestess, of course."   
  
"You're sick."  
  
"You're tempted," he said knowingly. "Now will you let me in?"  
  
"When you ask like that, how can I say no?" She opened the door and sat on her bed.  
  
"I'll have you know there's an Italian widow keeping a place warm for me."  
  
"I don't see why you're dawdling here then. Go ask her to worship at the altar of Sark."  
  
Sark dropped his pack on the floor. He then reached into his back pocket and presented its contents to Sydney with great fanfare.  
  
She unfolded the letter and was soon in tears. "There's a lipstick kiss! What an awful color. Hey, she says you can call her collect." She looked up, "What on earth did you do to seduce the poor woman."  
  
"I assure you I did nothing to give her hope." He sat next to her and blinked innocently down at her. "See what happens when you leave me alone?"  
  
"You're preyed upon by women who want to make you their little blonde love bunny?" Sydney pointed at the appropriate line in Agnese's love letter.  
  
"Exactly." He grabbed the paper away and crumpled it into a ball but Sydney snatched it back.  
  
"No way," she said. "I'm saving this for the scrapbook."  
  
He grinned widely but she cut him off, "The scrapbook where I put all my potential blackmail material."  
  
"Blackmail? My favorite. Sydney Bristow, extortionist. It makes you sound so depraved. I like it."  
  
She elbowed him and he winced.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"The arm, Sydney, the arm."  
  
"I'm sorry I thought that was part of the disguise."  
  
"Yes, Sydney, I've gone undercover as a seminary student who inspires pagans to convert with the overwhelming spiritual force of my broken arm. Look out, pagans, here I come."  
  
"I said I was sorry, you don't have to be snippy about it. We need to get that put in a cast."  
  
"Really? Wow, this must be why I asked you to be my partner. Tell me more, O Perceptive One."  
  
Sydney lay back against a pillow and smirked. "Dad really got to you, huh?"  
  
"I don't know what makes you say that. It was that damned train. Next time, I get to travel first class."  
  
Sydney smirked.  
  
"I think you're starting to pick up my bad habits. This is exactly the kind of evil influence your father was complaining about. I told him, 'Jack, now, Sydney's not as naïve and impressionable as she looks,' but he wouldn't believe me. I can see why."  
  
"If you weren't injured, you'd be the first man to ever get a concussion from a pillow thrashing."  
  
"You feel sorry for me?" He tried the angelic look again.  
  
She laughed. "So what did Dad have to say?"  
  
"That he had a rusty machete in case I knocked you up."  
  
"Did you just say 'knocked me up?' I never thought I'd hear the debonair Mr. Sark use such vulgar language."  
  
"I never thought you'd comment on my language instead of protesting the very possibility."  
  
"You would focus on that."  
  
"I take my hope where I can get it." Sark lay back on the pillow Sydney offered him and then looked at her seriously. "Your father doesn't trust me."  
  
"Term two, Sark."  
  
"I don't believe I said anything about that. In fact, I think trying to keep you from contacting your father would guarantee my very ugly death."   
  
"He only said that because he cares." She crossed her arms.  
  
"I know that, Sydney. Super spy, remember? I was trained to read these things from subtle signs like, 'Breathe near my daughter and die.'"  
  
Sydney sighed. "He is that bad, isn't he?"  
  
"Worse. I will never understand how a man as vigilant in his protections allowed Sloane to get his claws into you."  
  
"Hey," Sydney said. "You can stop that line of thinking right there."  
  
"Why? I'm sure you've wondered the same thing."  
  
"Just leave off, okay?"  
  
They lay together in silence. Sark knew he was acting spiteful, but was loathe to apologize. He needed Sydney to help him and was afraid Jack would take her away. Well, perhaps not afraid but a little concerned.  
  
She rolled over and picked up the phone. The conversation was brief and she turned back to Sark after a few minutes. "I asked the concierge to send the house doctor up."  
  
"Thanks," he said.  
  
"No problem," she answered stiffly and stood. "It's not like I want a partner with a broken arm."  
  
She moved away from the bed to sit at the desk where her laptop was set up. "I'm going to do a check on our surveillance."  
  
Clearly, she was going to ignore him. Sark cursed inwardly; he had two Bristows mad at him. Now all he had to do was find a way to offend Irina and he could call it a day well spent.  
  
Perhaps a life of peaceful meditation and solitude wasn't a bad idea. They had to give sanctuary to everyone, didn't they? He sighed. He doubted there was a place on earth he could hide if ever the entire Clan Bristow really wanted to hurt him. It was a truly terrifying thought.  
  
Well, he'd just have to get back in Sydney's good graces.  
  
***  
  
TBC 


	7. Five part C

Author's notes: Okay, so I stole a book from episode 3 (just a smidge) and I'm gonna take lot more from episode 4 and again there's not so much banter. I just *really* wanted to do this. So blah on you guys. No, I don't mean that. This story is just undergoing an identity crisis but it hopes you still like it. So, yeah, bit of a different tone, but…okay, I'm gonna suck it up while you guys just read.

**Edited to add more author's notes.**

**reesie**:  Ooh, thanks for reviewing in here and at SD-1.  I love that!

**depth**: thank you!

**opapea**: Heh.  Never been a fan of Sarkney?  How on earth did you find your way in here?  Well, I'm glad to have you.  Please return!

**true**** cat**: good to see you!

**cjgurl**: you are officially Archbishop, you've got a *mofo* big hat.  For all future interested parties, there is already one official Love Bunny of the Church of Sark.

**advo**: "it's been forever since your last chapter"//  Heh.  You have *no* idea.  Ask around about that fic exile when I didn't update for like 2 months.  

**Fanatic**: always a pleasure to see your reviews!  I think they're my favorites.

**---Part 5c---**

Sydney Bristow might have been one of the Top Ten most compassionate humans on the planet, but she could also hold a grudge; she was still pissed so when the doctor was finished with his arm, Sark retreated to his own hotel room. He discovered the room was in a different wing from Jack and Sydney's. It was of a good size and of comparable luxury to Sydney's; Jack wasn't childish enough to dump him in the Swiss equivalent of a La Quinta.

Until, of course, Sydney told Jack what he'd said about Arvin…then he'd be lucky to be dumped in a ditch. He'd best bring his gun to the dinner table.

The tranq, of course. One simply did not kill a man in a Zagat recommended restaurant.

He wondered if Jack knew that.

***

Sark had underestimated Jack. He always called him Jack in his head because Agent Bristow was reserved for Sydney, always. In any case, Sark should have known better; he had expected Jack to act out violently rather willfully forgetting that Jack was a master of manipulation and games no less than his wife, Irina.

And so, of course, Jack did not attempt to draw blood but dealt with Sark in another fashion. After the waiter delivered their meals and refreshed their drinks (alcohol all around), Jack removed several colorfully-wrapped, cartoon-festooned packages from his briefcase. Sark could swear Jack toothily grinned at him before turning back to Sydney, stoic as ever.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart. Eric and Marshall were thinking of you and sent a few gifts."

"It was last week, Dad. They didn't have to do anything. Tell them they're sweet."

Birthday?

Well, of course, she had to have a birthday…it had occurred to him before. But between persuading her to go with him, their domestic bliss in Portugal, breaking his arm…not to mention planning the collapse of an international terrorist organization…

There must have been a prearranged signal because at that moment, the waiter reappeared carrying a cake complete with candles and enough chocolate frosting for the cake to collapse and fall through the floor, bringing the waiter along. Upon its delivery, Sydney flew from her seat into her father's arms for a long, loving embrace. Tears streamed down Sydney's face and she sniffled unselfconsciously. For a second, Sark broke out of his self-pity to realize that Sydney probably hadn't spent many happy childhood birthdays with her father. He was witnessing a historical Bristow Family moment. It was probably very emotional for both of them.

But the bastard had grinned! It wasn't _fair_. Yes, they were on different sides of the law but they should also have been men together, male solidarity and all that rot.

He wondered if Jack was this much of a smug bastard before Irina got her claws in him.

Yes, probably.

Sark handed Sydney a handkerchief when she returned to her seat and tried to compose herself. She then tore into the gifts in an aggressive way that both terrified him and turned him on.

The first turned out to be a paperback copy of "Alice in Wonderland" that set the waterworks off again. Luckily, she still had his handkerchief. It was ruined now but she was smiling. How could a woman manage to smile and cry at the same time?

"It's from Weiss," she said. He nodded, remembering the man who had sloughed off weight with every interrogation visit.

The second gift was a brooch in the shape of a…well, Sark wasn't sure what it was but it looked to be made of a high quality gold. It gratified him that Sydney looked just as confused.

"It's from Marshall," Jack began. "He claims it's based off the Fisher Price View Master. You put it to your eye and click the fastener and you can see pictures. Your photo albums were lost in the fire, but I was able to lend him my duplicates and he pulled others from alternate sources although it is my understanding that most of the pictures are actually of his children."

"Children?" Sydney looked up from her new toy.

"Yes, the Flinkman twins, Jacen and Jaina. Ms. Bowman apparently put her foot down on naming her children Luke and Leia."

Sydney shook her head in laughter. Sark busied himself with slicing the cake and made a mental note to find out exactly why that was funny. Sometime after he'd bought Sydney a thoroughly thoughtful and expensive gift. He couldn't believe he had forgotten her birthday, so much for getting back in her good graces.

"Sark, what are you doing?" Sydney's face was puzzled.

"Being the Birthday Girl's humble servant?"

She put her hand on top of his, forcing him to put the knife down.

"I have to blow out the candles and we have to sing the song."

Sark paused. "Right. I knew that. What song?"

Sydney's face blanked with…something…and he knew he'd made a mistake. Even Jack's face seemed excessively unexpressive and bereft of any homicidal urgency.

Sydney reached across the table and squeezed his hand briefly before blowing out the candles in one breath. While the other two chatted, Sark finished cutting the cake and parceled the slices out.

Jack removed yet another package from his briefcase, this one elegantly wrapped. Inside was a large carven jewelry box. Sark drew in a silent breath; Irina had once sent him into a burning building to retrieve it.

Sydney looked up at her father questioningly.

"It's from your mother and me. The pearls were Josephine's, my mother. The ruby belonged to Irina's grandmother."

Sydney cried as she tried to put the pearl earrings on.

Oh, dear lord, the woman was going to stab herself. Sark stood up and moved behind her. Then he took the earrings from her, placing them gently in her lobes. Next he lifted the ruby cabochon from the blue velvet. Sydney twisted her hair up in one hand while Sark fastened the necklace.

"Thank you," she said and kissed him softly on the cheek. He suppressed the urge to remind her that the gift wasn't from him. But Sydney then moved to give her father his own kiss and a hug.

While she returned to her seat, Jack gave Sark a look that chilled to the bone. It was a glare that reminded Sark exactly who had often been in charge of SD-6 interrogations. He decided to sit down, shut up, and wait to see what Jack was planning.

"I've thought about your alliance with Sark and I've come to a compromise."

Ah. Jack was going to bargain with Sydney while she was emotionally vulnerable. Sark supposed he would have done the same thing.

"I will allow the alliance if he would be willing to trust me."

"Dad?" Sydney laughed. "Come on, I mean, what else can you do? Ground me?"

He dismissed her question. "Irina would like to see you. I have confirmed your safety, but she'd like to see for herself. Your mother misses you, Sydney."

She looked at Sark but he wouldn't meet her eyes. No one had offered Sark an invitation. From their discussions, she could gather Sark might not be ready to see her mother in any case. "We have a schedule, Dad. It's sort of an awkward time for a break. I don't want to lose momentum."

"I beg to differ. It's a good opportunity for downtime. You won't be going on many operations with Sark out of commission. He needs the time to heal properly." He looked pointedly at Sark's cast. "He can watch over your operations while you visit with your mother."

That's right, Jack, make it all my fault. He could feel the other man's stare but took comfort in the small knife he had hidden inside his sling.

Not completely confident of what he was doing, Sark spoke up anyway. "Go ahead, Sydney. Your father's right. Two weeks won't hurt us."

Sydney still looked uncertain. But Sark couldn't find it in himself to be more reassuring. He didn't want Sydney to go, certainly not to Irina. What if she decided that she could make do with her parents operation? He'd be stuck alone while they played Happy Family. It was her choice, anyway. And he couldn't try to influence her decision while her father sat there or the next package Jack pulled out of his briefcase would be a brick of C-4 with his name on it.

All he could say was, "I'll wait for you in Brazil."

She bit her lip but nodded assent to her father. "And I'll hear no more complaining about Sark?"

Jack grit his teeth but agreed. "I'll give you the location of her private plane and you can leave tomorrow."

He looked at Sark, daring him to protest. Sark stared back.

Their manly contest of wills was interrupted when Sydney said, with some determination, "I'm going to have a little chat with Mom. It seems she left some vital things out of Sark's training."

Sark wasn't sure what she meant but Jack raised an eyebrow when Sydney squeezed Sark's hand again..

***

Sark returned to his hotel room after supper. He was exhausted but planned to return to Sydney's room later. At least her departure had given him a reprieve from her temper. Ostensibly they were going to watch a movie, but both knew they would really be saying goodbye. It was odd, they had seen each other everyday for the last two months. He didn't quite know how to explain the feeling of incipient loneliness welling in his gut so he attributed it to his broken arm. It itched.

He unlocked his door, planning the rest of the evening. He would also need to purchase Sydney a birthday gift. He had no idea what to buy the woman; they had such a strange relationship. She was his partner, but he didn't know if she could call them friends. He sighed and mentally sorted that along with the other "Thoughts of Sydney Bristow to Avoid Until Absolutely Necessary."

Usually, giving women gifts was reasonably facile. He bought Irina jewelry most of the time but Sydney's parents' gift had effectively ruled that out unless he could find a diamond bigger than her head and then somehow imbued it with greater emotional significance than the family jewels. Other women were pleased by clothing or perfume but he rather thought Sydney would find some way to be insulted by a Dior dress or atomizer of Chanel. He imagined her asking if he thought something was wrong with the way she smelled.

He didn't think Sydney was prepared for the negative answer and elaborate explanation of exactly what he felt about her scent.

He knew he wasn't.

Fortunately, events forced him out of thinking of Sydney. To wit, her father was standing before him. Not the Bristow Sark would have chosen to have waiting in his hotel room.

But he knew better than to make a quip about that. Instead he raised his good arm in the air to show he was unarmed.

Jack moved to the turn on the light switch and the men stared at each other, measuring.

"Thank you for not countermanding me at dinner."

"I'm hardly in a position to command your daughter's decisions."

"I think we both know your opinions carry some weight with Sydney. I might not approve but I'm willing to come to terms."

"I'm trusting you to return her to me."

Jack scowled deeply but otherwise did not react to Sark's bait. "I have an opportunity for you to prove yourself. There's an operation I have in mind. I'd go in and you would serve as my backup."

"You're right. That is a lot of trust." Sark narrowed his eyes. "How do I know you're not leading me into a CIA trap?"

"You don't." Jack paused. "Just as I don't know you won't abandon me if the operation goes sour. I won't tell Sydney about this operation; she won't be able to connect my death to you."

So that was why Jack had pushed Sydney to visit her mother. Sark couldn't quite believe their relations had improved that much. Although it did comfort Sark to know Irina had not retrieved her own husband from CIA imprisonment. But that was something else he didn't need to think about quite yet.

"Fair enough." Sark nodded his head firmly. "So what's this scheme of yours?"

"Have you ever heard of Simon Walker?"

***

TBC…

I don't know what's up with me and Sark being sleepy and people waiting in Sark's hotel room. Maybe it's Freudian. (---Webmistress Eh? There I go again...) Otherwise, is this too mushy? I'm trying to remember it's a Sarkney fic. Blame it on the lovely romantic stuff I've been reading lately.

Okay, banter next part with Syd and Sark saying goodbye before a long separation. Cue the boom*chicka music. No, not really. I'm just teasing...


	8. Five part D point One

Sorry, guys, it's short and not all banter-ly. It's late and I'm sleepy but I wanted to post *something* for my nice readers. More soon.  Thanks for the feedback!  
  
**--part 5d point one--**  
  
"May second."  
  
"What's that?" Sydney asked as Sark breezed past her into the hotel room.  
  
He made no move towards the bedroom; instead he sat down in one of the anteroom's overstuffed arm chairs. Sydney shut the door and locked the deadbolt before turning to Sark expectantly.   
  
"So what's happening on May second?" She asked again, exasperated.  
  
He waited until she had settled herself comfortably in the chair opposite. Her legs draped lazily over one side and her face tilted towards him with unconcealed interest.  
  
"It's the date of my birth. The colloquial term, I believe, would be birthday. Unlike you, I expect scads of presents at my feet positively flaunting your adoration of my most deserving person."  
  
She blushed and looked upward. "It would have been weird to tell you. Like saying, hey, tomorrow pay lots of attention to me."  
  
"Well, I just told you. "  
  
She rolled her eyes at him, "Yeah, and that didn't feel strange at all."  
  
He caught her gaze and held it. "No, it didn't feel strange at all."  
  
"Right," she swung her legs back over the chair and stood abruptly. "So I've ordered three movies but you can have the final say."  
  
"I always do." He stood and moved close to her, ostensibly looking at the DVD cases.  
  
"Don't read over my shoulder," she protested. It was a feeble, token protest made out of habit more than annoyance so he moved even closer letting her hair brush over his chin.  
  
"_The Bourne Identity_? _Moonraker_? _XXX_?" Because he stood behind her, Sydney couldn't tell but she was certain he was smirking. "Well, if it weren't for that last title I'd think we had a theme."  
  
"Shut up, Sark. That's a spy movie, too."  
  
He plucked it out of her hands and arched his eyebrows suggestively. "Are you sure it's not a little something from your private collection that slipped in? Subconsciously?"  
  
She tried to grab it back but he successfully kept her at arm's length. Finally, she pulled away and crossed her arms.  
  
He smirked. "Are you pouting, Agent Bristow?" You can get shot and not cry, but I take your filthy movie away and you sulk? That's your weakness? It's precious."  
  
"It's not porn," she said stubbornly.  
  
He made an insulting noise.  
  
She opened her mouth to yell but he quickly moved forward and popped something into her mouth before she could strike him.  
  
"Ish shocklit," Sydney looked at him suspiciously and slurred around a mouthful of candy. She shivered and closed her eyes, "Good shocklit."  
  
"Eat with your mouth closed, Sydney," Sark said as put down the DVD case. He removed a long cardboard box from beneath his coat. "The confiserie was the only concession open at this late hour. I couldn't very well turn up without a gift for my beautiful, if perverted, hostess, could I? Not after I forgot her birthday because someone failed to inform me of the occasion?"  
  
She sat beside him on the carpet, swallowed and gracelessly demanded, "I want another one."  
  
He looked her up and down, "What will you give me?"  
  
Surprisingly, she laughed. "Oh, please. That was bad, even for you. And you get away with a lot because of the accent."  
  
"You shouldn't leave your mouth open like that." He stuck another chocolate between her lips and she let him push it forward to drop onto her tongue.   
  
He purred, "So the accent does it for you?  
  
She nodded and a soft look graced her face. "I like men with accents."  
  
"Oh." He knew exactly what she was thinking of even though they had never discussed her late fiance. He leaned back against the chair, propping the box of chocolates in his lap. He caught her attention by dangling a champagne truffle in front of her. He let his voice take a playful tone, "I propose an exchange. If you answer one of my questions, I'll feed you a chocolate."  
  
"Feed? Couldn't you just hand it to me and I could feed myself?"  
  
He shook his head. "Take it or leave it."  
  
She huffed for a second before shuffling closer, "Fine, but it's only because that's very good candy."  
  
"Note to self regarding Sydney Bristow's weaknesses. Porn and fine Swiss chocolate. Keep on person at all times." He paused. "Favorite weapon?"  
  
"My hands."  
  
"Good answer." Sark grinned broadly and she scowled at him. With his left hand, he fed her a third chocolate and she nipped at his finger with his teeth. His grin became even wider so she bit down.  
  
"Unless you want an off-color comment on what that little bite insinuates about your behavior in the bedroom, you should stop." He looked at her with mock sternness and she returned his hand. "That's my girl. Next question, favorite body part?"  
  
"On me? Or on other people?"  
  
"On you."  
  
Sydney looked relieved. "My feet. They're not the smallest, most delicate things ever but I like them. They're well-shaped."  
  
She stretched her legs out so he could inspect her feet.   
  
"They're lovely," he said. "Very proportional."  
  
She slapped him lightly on the arm. "Gimme my candy."  
  
He chuckled but gave her a butter cream, gently brushing his thumbtip against her cheek.   
  
"What's your favorite body part on me?"  
  
"I'll pass. No candy is worth that."  
  
"I won't tease. Cross my heart."  
  
"You don't have a heart," she grumbled but moved her face close to his. She squinted and pursed her lips in a great show of concentration. She moved back and said, "I guess you have nice feet, too."  
  
He fed himself a chocolate. "You have to tell the truth. I already promised I wouldn't nettle you about it. Not a snicker, not a smirk. I'll tell you my favorite part of your body if it will make you feel more comfortable."  
  
"Sark," she said softly. "Come on, don't do this."  
  
She had a point. He relented. "Alright, so my next question is rather thought-provoking. Prepare yourself. If you were a vegetable, what would you be?"  
  
"Broccoli."  
  
He looked at her in confusion.  
  
"I like broccoli," she said defensively. "It's a perfectly respectable vegetable. I think it's delicious."  
  
"So you'd cannibalize yourself? I always knew you were an odd one but that's downright petrifying."  
  
She stuck out her tongue and he placed a chocolate on it.  
  
"Next question: If you were a color, what would you be?"  
  
"Sark," looked at him straight-faced. "If I'm broccoli, I must be green."  
  
He shook his head with laughter, "I suppose I should have known better. I wasted a perfectly good question."  
  
She winked at him before opening her mouth and letting him feed her another chocolate.  
  
"Well, there's only one left" he said. "Last question: Would you want me to tell you my real name?"  
  
She paused before meeting his eyes. "No."  
  
TBC 

**auchic** is completely to blame for the chocolate.


End file.
